34-37 Degrees South - 2023

My country
Bríd Morahan
Warm breezes swarm to cross blue mountains where splayed gums reach high, skyward
and where once I showered beneath Wentworth’s falls, bathed in the tea-stained pool below,
rich umber from a long-stood pot—beautiful to me, but foreign
Tufted grasses hug the golden rock shelf where yellow sunshine brights Balmoral’s dusky sand
and where once I plunged beneath the kelpy waters, bathed in salty aquamarine with
fallen leaves from drains—vital to me, but strange
Frosted crystals settle over purple fields where hedgerows plump with finches sing and sway.
I late trekked the pebbled shore at Blackpool’s seaside, bathed—just my toes—in granite-grey water,
shadowed by the oil rig, blanching at the cold—familial to me, but dreadful
The holy scree slope stands as sentry to Clew Bay’s silver strands, the vivid green and blue
when sunshine whispers. I late slipped between the rocks, bathed in island’s lee, and the sparkle of the sea
cleared ages from my skin, my breath was sharp like fortress rocks—special to me, but like any oddity
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